


Trivial (Lists)

by BeeWitched (doesshelooklikeawitch)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Death, F/M, Tags Contain Spoilers, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doesshelooklikeawitch/pseuds/BeeWitched
Summary: WIP- This turned into a novella.Methos has been around forever, and when you've been around forever, everything feels temporary. So what's the point of getting attached? At some point everything can just feel so trivial.





	1. Prologue

Not long after the invention of the written word, Methos had begun making lists. When you live forever, you’re bound to get distracted from time to time and forget things. In the grand scheme, Byron pointed out to him one not-quite-sober evening, did it even matter if he forgot something? Either it mattered, and he’d remember, or it didn’t, so he didn’t need to recall it. Live in the moment, lists are not for now. 

But Methos loved his lists. 

In today’s technological age, it certainly helped to keep meticulous records of his identities, contact information, estates, holdings, inheritances, and so forth. He kept notebooks full of resources and useful people every generation or so. Granted, it was practical to keep digital files and store them on the cloud for easiest access and daily security, but he also wasn’t sure how far along the Watcher Hackers project had come along since he’d been outed as Adam Pierson, baby imortal. Watching an immortal digitally, some had argued, was almost more efficient considering the amount of information gained from listening to phone calls, reading emails, hard drives and so forth. Many immortals had social media accounts, though few with identifiable photos. All of this was a wealth of untapped information that the Watchers salivated over. Though there were ethics issues involved, Methos knew that it was only a matter of time before binoculars and cell phone cameras were no longer going to be sufficient for them, and so, he only kept certain information digitally, under the most secure protocols and encryptions, and nothing that would connect Adam to Methos or any other long-lived survivor. It was his digital go-bag, full of resources for an emergency only. Therefore, everything else was paper and pen, kept under lock and key, and sometimes ended in ashes. 

 

Everyone, even the Watchers, knew that Methos kept a journal. His diaries. Chronicles. Histories. Some had been recovered by archaeologists, treasure hunters, historians, and so forth. Most had not. Eventually, the Watchers obtained those, legally or not, once they realized the texts were penned (way before there were pens) by one of his kind. Many were guessed to be Methos’. That was okay. He could only store so many, and way back then writing was so much effort that very little personal information made it to the stone or wood or papyrus or hide… The Watchers would preserve what he’d lost, whether or not he wanted them to. 

After so long, the brain cannot remember it all. Skills gone unpracticed, facts no longer needed, faces blurred to oblivion. So he writes the story of each life, always starring a youngish adult (by current standards anyway) coming from nowhere, which is the exact location he’ll return to. He records names and dates and the things he wants to rediscover in a hundred years when it’s all faded and he’s feeling nostalgic. More recently he’ll include photos as well, even though he’s known how to beautifully sketch a face since the Renaissance. After a few centuries, it’ll be like re-reading an old favorite book. After a thousand years, it’s harder to remember what he’s lost, which is what inevitably happens. There are so many books filled with his life that he wouldn’t remember which ones slipped through the cracks between use and storage and more storage if it weren’t for his lists. 

 

Ever the meticulous one, however casual he appeared, Methos knew that while his diaries were the way to know the man’s endless life, his lists were the way to understanding the man. He kept standing lists of reminders for security protocols on his properties, updating identities, procedures for credentials both forged and authentic, and so forth. It was easy to forget about an account or identity and lose property or wealth because of apparent abandonment. Mortals, he thought, thinking that leaving something relatively untouched for 50 years suggests abandonment… Really though, after so long, Methos (and his aggregated identities) could have purchased entire countries with the amount of resources he’d stockpiled. While frustrating, losing an estate, an account, or even a vault here or there merely stung with wasted effort or lost memories. Everything ended, everything died, nothing was not temporary. One of the Dalai Lamas that Methos had met helped him really understand this, lifetimes ago. He chose not to cling or attach or even hold tightly to most things. This didn’t always work, but it helped him avoid a complete breakdown more than once. 

Lists were temporary by nature. Methos loved his lists. Once he completed them, they could be tossed into the recycling bin without a second thought most times. Compiling them and completing them gave him a small sense of satisfaction, and for a man with as many demons lurking just below the surface as Methos, he’d take any simple pleasure he could.


	2. Chapter 1

Pulling into a space at the grocery store, Methos turned off the windshield wipers and head lights before cutting the engine. He sat a moment, keys in his hand, which in turn rested palm up on his lap. He looked at them, not really seeing the keyring but instead replaying a conversation he’d just had with Richie in his head. _You’ll regret this, you know that, don’t you?_

  
Richie was a child, a baby really. He’d only recently been forced to leave Seacouver after his lack of aging became more obvious. Richie was sad, but since he’d had few real mortal attachments there to begin with, it was more a frustration than a loss for him. Methos knew he was being a little rough on him, but this wasn’t just about Richie.

  
The sound of another car pulling out of its spot nearby brought him back to the moment. Methos checked his pocket for the shopping list, grabbed his cell phone and tucked it and his keys into a pocket as he exited the car. The rain, which was heavy enough to encourage speed walking while outside but too light still for umbrellas or boots, felt appropriate for the day, but then again, he was in Seacouver after all.

  
Dragging his feet a little on the mats just inside the doorway to dry them, Methos took a moment to orient himself in the grocery store. The too-bright lights felt even harsher after sitting in the dark car, and the inexplicable full-blast air conditioning that seemed inevitable and omnipresent in stores made Methos aware of just how wet his clothes had gotten outside. Did mortals get sick from this sort of thing? Hardly a modern convenience. He fumbled a bit at the decision between cart and hand basket, and settled on a basket, pulling the list from his pocket. It took a moment to decipher some of MacLeod’s handwriting, but he could guess at most of the ingredients having studied at no less than three culinary schools in his years. That he could cook- and better than most, even- was a secret as guarded as his identity. He only shared either when it best suited him.

  
He started through the produce section, estimating portions and number of servings they would need, and thus consistently brought back to the tension between him and Richie. Why wouldn’t Mac intervene and force Richie to make the right decision? _It’s a little early in your life to have made this kind of mistake, kid._ Richie had scoffed and Methos nearly heard his eyes roll through the phone.

Joe, never wanting to burden anyone, had told Methos to back off, and he had, for now. _It’s just dinner, Methos._

  
“Just dinner, my arse,” Methos mumbled to himself as he bagged up the various greens on the list.

  
Mac generally understood what was going on, even if he didn’t like it, but Methos guessed it upset him to try explaining it to Richie. The Highlander still felt a certain somber solemnity when it came to death. He didn’t want to justify it, defend it, rationalize it or even understand it outside of his stupid moral code.

  
Methos finished with the produce section, still tickled despite himself at the wonders of the modern food industry. He could get fruit foreign to this season and climate any day of the week, only a few miles from his loft. Say all you wanted about unhealthy nature of not eating seasonally, Methos could still remember hungry winters that he didn’t quite make it through.

  
He navigated the small crowd of shoppers and carts as he grabbed a few other spices and ingredients. He never really kept a stocked kitchen these days, it wasn’t worth the effort most of the time. Basic spices and a few staples were enough in his loft until there was a reason for more. Cooking was taught to him as an art that was meant to be shared, not worth the effort just for feeding yourself. Cooking was about making others happy and for the last few years there weren’t many reasons to bother. He’d cooked for Alexa. He was cooking for Joe now. _Do I only cook for the dying? That seems like an oddly specific vocation. “Oh, Methos, your food is to die for!”_ He rolled his eyes at his own dark humor as he compared peppercorns and tried unsuccessfully to replace a small jar on the spice shelf a couple of times. Eventually his frustration grew and he slammed the jar into the shelf and stalked away. _Okay, maybe the jokes aren’t helping._

  
Methos checked the list again.

  
He was going to make the best steak Joe had ever eaten. Probably Duncan too, though the Scot might not admit it after all the bragging he’d done about his own cooking. The steaks were already at his loft, fresh from the butcher and covered in his favorite dry rub, aging just enough before he cooked them tonight. There would also be homemade crab, greens, and cheese ravioli with a sage butter sauce, salad with his homemade balsamic reduction dressing, and a few other roasted root vegetables. And the bread. Methos had learned bread-making just about the same time most of humanity did, but it had only gotten better. Sure, it was much harder to make it quite right (there were no local wheat millers grinding the cereal by hand daily the way there once were), but what Joe had never known wouldn’t hurt him now.

  
That thought stopped Methos in his tracks, nearly causing him to be run over by a shopping cart before he mumbled an apology and stepped aside. _What Joe had never known._ The amount of what he had never known — the amount he would never know — was achingly infinite. This wasn’t the first time the immortal had considered this, not by a long shot, but sometimes facts such as these still stung when applied at just the right time.

  
It was easy to be sensitive right now. The whole thing was still fresh, for Methos any way. In the way that the day ends no matter what, in the way that every single person he’d ever known would die because that was the truth. That was how this worked. He lived. It was a gift, some people thought, but he knew better. It was a curse. To truly understand impermanence. To watch everything crawl from the ashes, rebuild itself only to crumble again. To watch every single mortal age and wither, even when they’d lived good lives. Was it really even worth it to keep getting attached? Methos felt his heart racing and tried to steady his breath. The baking aisle was not the place to have a bitter existential breakdown, was it? While he wasn’t always completely up to date on social mores and taboos, he was pretty sure that falling to his knees and begging the universe for some mercy might cause a stir in aisle seven. So he tried to breathe.

  
A few deep calming breaths as he pretended to decide on a bag of chocolate chips that weren’t on the list.

  
A few more. He looked into his hand and realized he’d been gripping the bag of chocolate chips tightly enough to melt and congeal a third of the bag. He looked around sheepishly and dropped the bag into his basket.

  
He moved on to the dairy section to compare cheeses, making a mental note to not annihilate any Brie.

  
_Richie should be there,_ he’d reminded Joe gently when Methos first heard that the younger immortal had declined the invitation.

  
_I can’t... make him come... Adam. It’s... his choice and I... have to respect... that._ The words came out more slowly as Joe stopped every few syllables to take a shallow breath. The small hose hooked under his nose and around his ears, hooked up to the oxygen tank nearby didn’t seem to be as effective as it had been only a month prior, when Methos had started going out of his way to spend time with Joe daily.

  
_I don’t think he realizes how long he’ll have to live with this choice though, Joe. I’m going to talk to him._

  
Joe had only shrugged gently as if to say 'It’s up to you but I don’t think it’s worth the argument.' It was though. Methos knew, because he’d done it all already. He knew death intimately. He was Death. Having died more times than he could count, having killed more than he’d like to remember, Methos had seen every mortal friend he’d ever had die, and he was a bit of an expert at it after all these years. He knew that a man had the right to choose his death. He knew there was no dignity in waiting it out, and that, as much as everyone wished it were otherwise, we only remember them as they were right at the end. Most people didn’t like the idea of that, and he was sure that was part of what was keeping Richie away, but this wasn’t about Richie.

  
_I’d like to have a dinner, Adam, a little party I guess. Can you help me arrange it?_ Methos and Joe had been silently contemplating a chessboard a few weeks earlier as Methos kept a careful watch on how much of his lunch Joe ate. He didn’t need as much food these days, he didn’t like the way his medications upset his stomach. Joe looked old, hunched over, with his breathing tube across his face and trailing down over his shoulder and to the tank beside him. It annoyed him, and Joe’s face was nearly always strained in discomfort if not pain, which he denied completely.

  
_A dinner? Sure, Joe. What kind of dinner?_ He might have guessed, but it was easier to skirt the subject as long as possible, so he kept his eyes on the board, his face neutral, voice casual or even distracted, pretending to be engrossed in the match instead of beginning a conversation he had been dreading for a short while now.

  
_I guess you could call it a good-bye dinner._

  
_Going on a trip, Joe?_ He didn’t need to play dumb, but he also felt like this is what was expected of him at this point. This was how Adam Pierson acted. This was how he would act, until he couldn’t any longer, for continuity’s sake, for Joe’s.

  
_You know I’m not. At least not one that I’ll need to buy a plane ticket for. I want to have one last good night with my friends before I can’t anymore._

  
Methos looked up to meet Joe’s steady gaze with his own. _Then what, Joe?_ He tried to keep his tone even, keep the sadness out of his voice so that Joe heard no judgment. It mattered to him that Joe knew he didn’t judge his choices, especially now.

  
Methos found the couple of things that Mac had requested for the dessert he was planning on making, added them to the increasingly heavy basket and moved along. He tried to pretend that the tightness in his back was from the basket and not the general tension he’d been experiencing since that conversation with Joe. Death still put him on edge, even if it was this, the simplest kind. Mac had been sulking since he’d told him about Joe’s dinner, part invitation and part harbinger. He and Joe had agreed to keep some of the plans to themselves, but Mac needed to understand what this was. His attachment to Joe would keep him from seeing the obvious; MacLeod had been in denial about Joe’s slow deterioration. He’d seen countless die in battle, but it was much harder to deal with a natural end to life. There was no enemy, no bad guy, no one to blame but time. No, Time belonged to Methos, to Mac, to Richie. Not to Joe. Mac figured that so long as Joe was mentally stable, then he was fine and the physical things could be worked around. But Methos had been spending more and more time with their friend, and he understood that that wasn’t always the case. Joe had started to… get blurry at times. The passage of time was playing with his memory, and even though his friends still called him Adam regularly enough in public, Methos was pretty sure there were times when Joe forgot that he wasn’t just a mild-mannered mortal researcher for the Watchers.

  
So Methos told him, and Mac tried denying its necessity. Eventually he put on his stoic stance and said that if Joe was sure the end was so near, then he’d be there for his friend.   
As Methos wrapped around the end of the store for some eggs, he allowed himself a few moments of pretending to only know as much as MacLeod did. That left him with a simpler form of grief to hold in his heart.

  
_Well, that sort of depends on you. You’re not going to skip town before the dinner, are you?_ Joe moved his bishop, not without effort, Methos noted to himself. Then Joe looked back up, a little nervousness touching his face. He was clear-minded then, though, without a doubt. Joe knew what he was doing, with whom and how. Methos couldn’t deny that.

  
_There’s no where else I’d choose to be._ Methos replied simply, feeling the dread at where this conversation was heading creep up his back, but maintaining eye contact.

  
_Then I have a favor to ask you._

  
Methos couldn’t — wouldn’t — deny his friend this. This safe, comfortable passage. It was as much control as anyone could exert over their end, and Joe deserved it. Methos felt anger at being asked to perform the task flare for just a moment in his stomach, but he couldn’t fault Joe. MacLeod would be ruined by such a task. Methos would simply be donning his mantle again. If Joe needed him to be Death one more time, he would.

  
At the checkout counter, as the items rolled along the conveyor belt, Methos reminded himself that haggling over the price of the cheese just wasn’t done any more, and checked his list one more time. He was ready.

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

It was hard to stay for the funeral. MacLeod ended up handling most of the details, and there had been some tension between them since the dinner. Since Joe passed. Joe and Methos had agreed to wait at least a week after the dinner party, to make sure everything looked natural. It mattered to him that it was seen as a natural death, so that the Watchers wouldn’t investigate, so that his insurance would cover his expenses. Even at the end Joe didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, including Methos or Mac, who had admittedly impressive resources for someone so honorable. So here Methos was, sitting in the far corner of Joe’s bar, beer in hand, slouching on a barstool and trying to figure out when a good time would be to leave the after funeral gathering. He knew that Tahiti was nice this time of year. He’d spent the afternoon and evening dodging the wary glances of Watchers he’d once considered friends. Bora Bora was also an option.  
  
Then there was a movement next to him, Mac sidling up onto a barstool, scotch glass in hand, not making eye contact yet.  
  
“He left letters for us.” Mac said simply, into his glass before taking a heavy sip.  
  
“Letters?”  
  
“Yeah. His lawyer had them with the will. They met just last week,” he added, a little pointedly.  
  
“Well Joe was always pretty good with his timing,” Methos mumbled before taking a swig from his bottle.  
  
“Methos…” MacLeod seemed to me deciding whether or not to continue. Methos understood in a way. Part of him wanted to know, but there was already so much grief in his heart and in his mind. Maybe not now, but one day Mac would ask him and Methos would have to tell the truth. This wasn’t something he could hide from Mac like that, not forever.  
  
“Did you read yours yet?” He tried changing the subject slightly for both their sakes. He finally turned slightly on his stool to look at MacLeod.  
  
“No. He’s giving them out tomorrow when he meets with a few of us about Joe’s estate.”  
  
“Us?” At this Duncan finally turned to face Methos directly.  
  
“Us. Yes. We are named as part of Joe’s humble estate.”  
  
“What about his daughter? What ab-”  
  
“We were his family too. I know you don’t like to see it that way, but we were.”  
  
At this Methos could only sigh and slouch a little further towards the bar. Yeah, he was family. He turned on the stool and looked around the room. He’d helped Joe to die, in the end. He was there, holding his hand and looking into his eyes. If that wasn’t a close bond, he didn’t know what was.  
  
“Richie couldn’t make it?” Methos finally asked, not without a little resentment in his voice.  
  
MacLeod swirled his scotch and took another sip. “He said he couldn’t get out here in time.”  
  
“He knew—”  
  
“He knew,” Mac agreed. “We all knew. Richie hasn’t done this like we have, Methos. This is still fresh for him. He doesn’t know how to handle it yet.”  
  
_What do you know of Death, MacLeod?_ Methos wanted to reply, but bit his tongue. Another time. Instead he only shrugged and offered a small “I tried.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
They sat in silence as the small huddle of what remained of Joe’s Watcher friends left, and helped Don clean up the bar and close down for the night.

  
At Joe’s two days after the funeral and one day after the extremely awkward meeting with Joe’s lawyer, Methos had just sat down on the floor with a beer he’d left in Joe’s fridge not too long ago when he felt the familiar ache in the back of his head and a dull buzz in his ears. He perked up, looking to the door and saw MacLeod let himself in.  
  
“Want a beer?” He’d already averted his gaze back to the bookshelf, but held the beer towards MacLeod in demonstration. “There are a few left in the refrigerator. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”  
  
“Jesus, Methos, it’s only eleven o'clock,” MacLeod replied, setting down his coat and concealed sword and looking around the living room. The place felt smaller somehow, even with all the windows opened to let in some morning air and light.  
  
Methos only shrugged in reply as he pulled a few history texts down from the shelf and flipped through them. It wasn’t so much the books he was interested in but the pieces of himself that Joe had left inside. Notes, scraps of paper, inscriptions, and other marks that he likely believed no one would see. Those were the valuables here. There were few actual possessions he’d planned to take from Joe’s things. There was no point in saving it all: at best it would end up in a storage locker for years at a time; at worst it would be lost in the shuffle and perhaps never even missed. So he would scan for any notes in the books that would be meaningful, and there was a framed photo of the two of them in his bedroom Methos had planned to take home. There was one of MacLeod and Joe in the small office that he’d have to remember to point out if the Scot missed it.  
  
The men slowly worked through the rooms in near silence, only talking as needed. There wasn’t much to say, and the tension between them had yet to dissipate. Methos dreamed briefly of a warm Mediterranean beach.  
  
Methos was reclining on Joe’s neatly made bed, the bed he had died in, the bed Methos had helped kill him in. He was sorting through some papers and photos that had been in the side table when MacLeod finally joined him. Duncan looked around from the doorway to the bedroom, barely acknowledging Methos as he took it in. He opened the closet doors for a moment and peeked inside. Then he did the same with the tall dresser in the far corner of the room. He stuck his head inside the bathroom for a moment. Then he gently sat himself on the very edge of the far side of Joe’s bed.  
  
“There’s no dust. No garbage.”  
  
“I asked Joe’s nurse to find him a cleaning lady towards the end. She came once a week I think,” Methos replied, not mentioning that he’d paid for both services.  
  
“Everything is sorted. His clothes are neatly organized. There was no fresh food in the kitchen,” MacLeod continued.  
  
“I think the cleaning lady came one last time, after.”  
  
“Methos.” The younger immortal’s tone rivaled that of a mother who thought her kid was hiding something.  
  
Methos sat up and positioned himself next to MacLeod at the end of the bed, eyes on his hands in his lap. “What are you expecting me to say, MacLeod? Joe knew what was going on. It’s not like he was buying plane tickets for next summer. He was preparing himself. He was prepared.”  
  
“Yeah that’s the problem, Methos. I think he was a little too prepared. A little too eager.” There was a pause. MacLeod took a steadying breath. “Methos… did Joe… did you..?” The accusation there, though based in fact, was still hard coming from a friend. The amount of suspicion and judgment that MacLeod could cram into a few simple syllables was almost impressive.  
  
“Did I what? Did I watch Joe slowly waste away? Did I spend nearly every day with him so he wouldn’t have to face death himself? Yes. Yes I did. Yes, Joe was prepared. Yes, he asked me to help him prepare.” Methos realized he was speaking too loudly. Too defensively. He reminded himself that he’d done the right thing, the thing that Joe had asked him to do. After 5,000 years he already knew that he’d carry this weight for lifetimes, but he wasn’t going to feel any worse about it right now because of some boy scout. He lowered his voice, steadied it. “He didn’t want to suffer, MacLeod, and he didn’t need to.”  
  
MacLeod, who’d been listening intently but only watching Methos out of his periphery, dropped his head. “Why…” he began, but didn’t finish.  
  
“Because he deserved to choose his death in the end, MacLeod. He did a brave thing.”  
  
“No, I mean,” MacLeod finally looked Methos directly in the eye. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he ask me? He never really said a final goodbye. If I’d known…” his voice trailed off before his voice could break and swallowed instead.  
  
Methos was surprised, and even a little impressed by this reaction. “I think he knew how hard this would be for you,” he started as he stood up to pace the small room. “I, um, have a much looser moral code than you, MacLeod. And I don’t think he wanted to be talked out of this. He knew what he was doing. He was sure. And you knew Joe- he didn’t want goodbyes, he didn’t want a fuss. Hell, he wouldn’t even let me drag Richie back here even though I’d already all but told him what was going on.” Methos stopped and stood facing MacLeod just a few feet away. “Have you ever died a slow death, Duncan?”  
  
Duncan thought for a moment and nodded quietly.  
  
“Was there any point you wished you had died even more slowly?” Methos asked, eyebrows raised as he made his point, but his expression wasn’t without compassion. When MacLeod seemed to get the point, Methos patted him on the shoulder and sat down again, this time beer in hand. They spent some time in that silence, more comfortable now that the tension had dissipated a bit. Eventually Methos let out a small chuckle.  
  
“What’s so funny?” MacLeod asked.  
  
“I kind of expected you to try and take my head over this. Maybe you’re more grown up than I thought,” Methos grinned, then stood up and took the picture of him and Joe off the shelf. He left Duncan in the bedroom to tuck the picture into the small bag he’d brought with him, opened a new beer, and sat on the couch. When Duncan finally followed him into the living room he found Methos playing with the edges of a smallish white envelope in his lap. Duncan knew that it was Joe’s letter because his own had come similarly marked. When he sat down near Methos on the couch he noticed that it was addressed to Adam Pierson.  
  
“He was always worried about more people finding out about me,” Methos said quietly. “He was oddly protective of me, considering who we are. Were.”  
  
“He loved you like a brother. He told me as much.” After Methos didn’t respond, MacLeod asked if he’d read the letter yet. It was hard to tell from the envelope whether it’d been opened or not after being obviously folded and bent from similar absent minded movements.  
  
“Read it? No,” he shook his head. “I’m trying to figure out what he could say to me that he hadn’t already… Have you read yours?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He said to go easy on you, for one. He didn’t tell me what for, but it wasn’t hard to guess.”  
  
“Maybe it was just a blanket suggestion. It’s hard to tell with someone like me.” Methos smiled wryly. He played with the edge of the envelope a little more and then finally decided to open it. He sat up a little more from his sprawled position and angled his body slightly so that MacLeod couldn’t see the text of the letter. This was private, but he also didn’t want to leave the room.  
  
_Methos-_  
 _I liked you when I thought you were just another grad student and Watcher. I came to love you like a brother after I found out who you really are. Every day with you was a challenge and an adventure; I don’t have the same buzz that you and MacLeod do, but I definitely felt your absence when you disappeared. Don’t worry, I don’t hold any of it against you. I’m sad that my time is up, but I’m happy with how I’ve spent most of it. I find that I’m not bitter about the fact that you and Mac and Richie get to keep doing this for lifetimes. One was enough for me._  
 _  
I want to thank you again for agreeing to help me. I know it couldn’t have been easy, but I appreciate it more than I can say. I hope you can understand what it means to me._  
 _  
Listen- I worry that the world will break Mac with it’s gray areas and lack of honor. I worry that time will break you, the way it nearly has already a few times. To get by, remember your conscience. Don’t stop enjoying the little things, no matter how transient, and don’t keep everyone at arm’s length all the time. I’ve made you a short to do list. No, I doubt I’ll ever find out if you’ve completed it, but try, for me._  
 _1\. Get up to date on pop culture._  
 _2\. Take advice from MacLeod once in a while._  
 _3\. Teach Richie something._  
 _4\. Make mortal friends. Maybe go on a date soon? My soon, not your soon._  
 _5\. Forgive yourself._  
 _6\. Have a cold one for me from time to time._  
 _-Joe_  
  
Methos skimmed the letter again and then refolded it and tucked it inside his jeans pocket without a word. The younger immortal had been keeping his thoughts to himself while Methos took his time with the letter. Finally, Methos said, “MacLeod?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Do you know any good pop songs?”


	4. Chapter 3

“See I don’t mind _Battlestar_ ,” Methos said between sips of beer while sitting at a table near the bar at Joe’s, “but do I really have to watch all of these Harry Potter movies?” The bar was still doing well a few weeks after Joe’s passing, Methos was happy to note. Not crowded, but busy enough for a Monday evening.   
  
“I mean, you should really be reading the books to get the story right, so—” MacLeod started from across the table, his own bottle of beer in hand.  
  
“They’re children’s books, MacLeod! Sure, they were a big deal, and I get why you enjoy them, but I think I’m a little old for these.” Methos glanced sideways at Mac and grinned at the other man’s obvious offense.   
  
“I’m just saying, as someone who knows a little more about pop culture than you—”  
  
“Everyone knows more about pop culture than I do MacLeod. That’s the point, isn’t it?”  
  
“I’m just saying, Harry Potter is still really important. I think Joe even liked these movies.” MacLeod shrugged as if to say _But what do I know?_ And was willing to drop the subject, but he had one more question first.   
  
“So how are you going about this? I get that Joe told you to learn about pop culture, but how will you know when you know enough?”  
  
“I honestly don’t know yet,” Methos admitted. “But I do have to make some sort of effort.”   
  
MacLeod pulled out his phone and was staring intently at the screen as he tapped away. Then he read aloud from the screen “ _Friends_ is a famous sitcom that ran for ten seasons. It won numerous awards and to catch up on that will only take… eighty-eight hours. That’s not so bad in the scheme of things, right?” His voice was cheery, but Methos definitely felt like he was being mocked.   
  
Methos groaned in frustration. “That’s just one show. This is going to take so long that by the time I know all of this generation’s pop culture, Rome will have risen again.”   
  
“”It’s just television, Methos.” Mac chuckled at the sight of a near demi-god having a minor breakdown over a 90’s sitcom.   
  
“You know, I haven’t really watched much television since color came in,” he took a swig from his bottle and continued. “There are better things to do most days, you know. It’s not like I’m laying on the couch sick all the time. I did have an important research position and a graduate program to complete until not too long ago, you’ll remember.”  
  
“I still can’t get enough of it. Richie used to get together with Tessa and me for regular movie nights. We didn’t go to the theater much, but back before, well, everything… he was obsessed with mafia movies.”  
  
“Am I really just supposed to sit for hours and watch these bloody things?” Methos decided to ignore the topic of Richie for now and probably for a while going forward as well. “Is this really how _they_ spend all their time? So little given to them and this is what they do?” Methos knew he was being petulant, but it was frustrating to struggle with this at his age. Usually if he didn’t know something, it either wasn’t worth knowing or easily faked until he learned it.   
  
Mac shrugged. “Eventually you’ll find a show or a book or something that moves you. You’ve found some before.”  
  
“Yeah well that was in the literal Golden Age, back when movies didn’t have to be thirteen hours long to make sense.” Mac sighed and got up to get another round from Don at the bar.  
  
The elder immortal pouted a bit longer while listening to the small band that was now playing at the bar. He couldn’t make out the details of the photo from his position, but he knew that a framed photo of Joe playing in that same spot hung in the shadow behind the dummer. Methos could nearly hear Joe’s voice in his head, telling him not to make such a big deal out of nothing, especially a nothing that was the idea of a dead man who would never know the difference. But the immortal wouldn’t ignore Joe’s last wishes. And the longer he spent on this, the longer he could put off taking advice from MacLeod.   
  
Just then, a fresh beer appeared on the table in front of him and he turned to see MacLeod already settled back in, looking like he was feeling smart.   
  
“What is it, MacLeod?” Methos’s tone made no effort to hide his annoyance. He’d felt like a fool enough the past few weeks, not to mention this particular evening. Honestly admitting weaknesses was not something he’d ever done much of, and it still stung even in this case.   
  
“Oh nothing. Since you’re not working on the pop culture thing, are you going to try and do any of the other things Joe left for you?”   
  
“I didn’t say I wasn’t working on this.”   
  
“It certainly sounded like you were giving up. And maybe you should. I mean, why waste your time on this… ephemeral, temporary, _trivial_ —”  
  
“Where are you going with this, MacLeod?” The younger immortal was obviously baiting him, but why?   
  
“Don and I were just talking about this event some other nearby bars are participating in. It’s a huge bar trivia contest. It’s mostly pop culture and history stuff, apparently. I was just thinking it’s too bad that you’ve decided to give up—”  
  
“I haven’t given up!” Methos interruped, but MacLeod continued over him.   
  
“—because I’d love to watch you lose. I’d buy tickets to watch you lose.” Mac’s eyes were shining with the challenge.   
  
He knew it was a trap. He knew he was being baited. But damn, it made Methos’s blood boil. He sat up straight in his chair and faced MacLeod fully.   
  
“You know you should have a little more respect for your elders, MacLeod. I went to war with Marcus Aurelius; do you think I couldn’t win a stupid bar contest if I wanted to?”  
  
Mac’s reply was matter-of-fact and struck Methos like a blow. “You lost that TV game show.” Before Methos opened his mouth to put the younger immortal back in his place, he continued. “And I’ve heard nothing but whining and excuses since you began trying this.”  
  
Methos sat back in a huff and drank his beer deeply. Then he plopped the empty bottle down on the table and leaned in towards his supposed friend. “Alright MacLeod. You’d pay to watch me lose? How much will you pay me when I win?”  
  
“Are we making a bet here?”  
  
“No, I’m making an investment.”  
  
“If I win I want your Japanese tea set.”  
  
“The priceless one, you mean?”  
  
“Naturally.” Mac’s eyes glittered at the thought of owning it. It reminded him of his time in Japan, and would be a lovely gift to Amanda the next time they picked up again.   
  
Methos huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. If I win I want you car.”  
  
“The convertible?! C’mon Methos that’s too much.”  
  
“That’s too much? You just told me to give you an authentic Higashiyama tea set that’s worth millions to the right collectors. Hell, some museums would love to have it.”  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” MacLeod responded through clenched teeth. “My convertible. _If_ somehow you should win.”  
  
“If I take home the trophy… or whatever the bar trivia equivalent is of this stupid event, then I get the car.”   
  
“The car I’ll be using to transport that tea set to my loft, no doubt,” he corrected.  
  
The men shook hands and then Methos excused himself to get more information about this contest.  
  


Back at home a few hours later, Methos was leaned over his laptop scribbling notes on the pad beside it. The Seacouver Area Bar Trivia Championship was a fairly big deal to those who cared about such things. He could understand why Joe wouldn’t want a loud trivia contest in his blues bar, but other nearby establishments with less refined musical taste really hyped up the event. It was a couple of weeks long and worked in rounds. Small teams (yet another hurdle he’d have to deal with- he wondered if MacLeod had known about this part) competed in trivia events and then the winners would move onto the next round and the next until the final four competed in a large event next month. So he needed at least one teammate. And he needed them within the week. Methos wasn’t sure if this was possible, but winning that event would not only guarantee him a sweet ride for the forseeable future but also cross off an item on the List. There was no way he’d win on his own, and no way a pre-formed team that had space would let him join at this point; Methos realized he needed to call in an expert, and make sure they could get the job done. He opened a new browser tab and wondered if he could work up some credentials in time to win this thing.


End file.
